


we got lifted on a monday

by gluecklich



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Multi, Sexual Tension, Wedding date, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-04-23 13:52:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19152355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gluecklich/pseuds/gluecklich
Summary: There was once a time in Sansa Stark’s life where a wedding felt like a fairy tale—the epitome of all things good. Yet now, pressed into the corner of a crowded limo with 8 other women, she can definitively say her opinion has changed.— In which Robb gets married, and Sansa convinces aggressively-single Jon Snow to be her wedding date.





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a gifset series, which can be found here - https://glueck.tumblr.com/tagged/jonsaweddingau

There was once a time in Sansa Stark’s life where a wedding felt like a fairy tale—the epitome of all things good. Yet now, pressed into the corner of a crowded limo with 8 other women, she can definitively say her opinion has changed.  

It’s not that she dislikes her future sister-in-law, quite the contrary, actually. It’s just that the sugary sweet wedding traditions she’d once held in high-esteem have lost their shine. And the last thing she wants to do on this forced “vacation” is craft a wedding dress out of toilet paper or guess how many children Robb and Jeyne may have (she’s hoping for three - personally).

No, her post-Joffrey, post-engagement life looks quite different.

She has only two goals: survival and inebriation.

“How long are we stuck in this thing?” Arya asks from beside her, dislodging an arm from the fray of limbs long enough to tug a bottle of Fireball from her purse. Sansa arches a brow at it, but decides not to comment.

“10 more minutes?”  Her phone is trapped somewhere beneath her, so it was anyone’s guess.

The whole thing had started over 5 hours ago, when they’d been herded out of the Westerling estate for a bridal party breakfast. Bleary-eyed and pre-traumatized at the prospect of compulsory camaraderie before 9 am, Sansa had taken comfort in the fact that Robb’s best man and her wedding-date-of-choice, Jon Snow, would be more than happy to lurk with her in corners. That was until she found out that he and the other groomsmen were going somewhere **_different._ **

Tradition.

She’d been mid-text to him for a location update when Jory Mormont had leaned over to ask her who she was messaging that made her smile so stupidly—she’d frantically shoved her phone under her then and hadn’t touched it since.

The awkward guilt thing was a new development—albeit an unsurprising one.

As the maid of honor, it was her job to keep to schedule and stay abreast of where all the members of the bridal party were located, groomsmen included. And the easiest way to do that was through the best man. But at some point over the last two days, the regular check-ins had evolved into legitimate conversations and now Sansa couldn’t stop. She’d been texting Jon all day.

“Did Jon say where they were?” It’s Jeyne this time, shifting around her younger sister, Eleyna, to smile in Sansa’s direction. Feeling her cheeks heat slightly as she avoids looking anywhere near Jory, Sansa wrests her phone from where it’s slid into the seat-back

Jon has indeed sent her another update: _At bar #3._

She winces internally. It was only noon.

“Uh, at a new bar,” Sansa states, hoping her face is doing something positive.

The plan, as it currently stood, was for the bridal party to meet back up with the groomsmen at a restaurant on the outskirts of the city once they finished their wine tour. However, Sansa was starting to wonder if anyone was actually going to make it till then.

Returning to her phone, she types back **_Please drink water_ ** , then suddenly hating how motherly she sounds, adds **_I’ll drag your unconscious body with me tonight if I have to._ **

Even well on her way to sloshed, Sansa knew another evening surrounded by wedding cheer without backup was going to go down about as well as the cinnamon whiskey her sister was chugging. And despite Arya’s insistence on keeping her company, Sansa wasn’t about to entrap her sister for hours on end while Gendry Waters was present and _existing._

Arya had never quite taken to their mother’s etiquette lessons the way Sansa had, she wasn’t as good at pretending she was having a good time.

Sansa, on the other hand, had turned it into a fine art.

 _Still_ , she thinks, eying the chattering women around her before staring back down at her phone, _even I get tired._  

Two years ago when Robb had first proposed to Jeyne, Sansa’d been knee-deep in planning a wedding of her own, clinging to the last shards of her rose-colored glasses. It had lasted about as long as it took for Robb and Jeyne to set a date.

When things with Joffrey Lannister disintegrated, they disintegrated quickly.

Since then, everything in her life felt tenuous, the ground beneath her seemingly taking forever to even back out. Which was maybe part of why she’d been so adamant about not attending Robb’s wedding alone, surrounded by reminders of her own aborted life-plans.

Her friend Margaery had suggested she “crowd source” live at the wedding, but Sansa wasn’t fond of mindless hookups - nor did she have full confidence in separating her emotional baggage long enough to actually enjoy one. She’d thought instead that she might be able to convince Margaery’s brother, Loras, to go with her as a buffer. However the Tyrells were vacationing in Croatia for the rest of the summer, which meant Sansa’s circle of “safe” men was left depressingly small.

Then, 3 weeks ago, Robb had informed her that Jon Snow would be going to the wedding stag and Sansa had seen salvation in the distance.

Jon Snow, the gangly, quiet boy she’d grown up with. Jon Snow, the boy she’d watched ghost between peripheral groups at parties and play DD for her drunken brother in high school. Jon Snow who’d spent the last 2 days coming to save her when her perfected facial expressions and social graces began to lag.

Sweet, **_safe_ ** Jon Snow.

Sansa felt like an idiot.

Jon may still have been the ever-present gentleman, but after spending hours with him in an incredibly close vicinity, Sansa was starting to worry her womanly virtues weren’t quite as intact (and the bits of herself she’d thought long-dead were screaming back to life). Her knees were beginning to do that wobbly thing when he said her name, and she could _hear_ the increased lilt in her voice when she spoke to him. If it wasn’t half-humiliating, Sansa was sure she’d be doodling his name into her day planner - as it was, the constant texting seemed to be enough.

Her phone buzzes, alight with an image of Jon’s sad water glass and Sansa feels her mouth tilt up.

_Full permission, you can drag my body wherever you want._

Sansa feels her stomach clench. **_Damn you, Snow._ **


	2. Sansa

The fine art of pretending, as Sansa liked to imagine it, all came down to one meticulous, mental checklist: school your features, square your shoulders, make eye contact, smile when appropriate—it was a game. And it was the game that was currently helping Sansa keep her shit together. It was just too bad her sister seemed determined to ruin it.

“Are you okay?”

She’s hovering just outside of Sansa’s peripheral, eyebrows knit.

 _You’re way too close for this breakdown,_ she thinks, avoiding Arya’s eye. She’s _been_ way too close for the last hour and a half, casting wary glances while the critical parts of Sansa’s brain shut down and rote memory took over. They were at the last stop on their wine tour and Sansa could feel the wash of hysteria and anticipation building with every step that brought them closer to the exit—closer to Jon Snow. If it were anyone else, any other man, Sansa would’ve already divulged her secrets from where they sat burning at the back of her throat. But her sister’s relationship with Jon was an entirely different animal, and Sansa didn’t have anywhere near enough information to satisfy the questions Arya was sure to ask. 

She didn’t even know if this was a _thing._

The text could’ve been innocuous, colored by her own desires. Jon could’ve intended something entirely different to how she’d taken it. Robb had always claimed Jon was bad at talking to women in high school, too sullen and shy, too awkward in his approach—but Jon was fully grown now. He was less solemn and decidedly less awkward, if still a bit prone to brooding.

If Sansa were completely honest though, broody on a twenty-nine year old man had quite a different flare than it did on a moody sixteen year old _boy._ And now Sansa felt like she could actually _see_ the difference. She could see Jon properly for the first time in her life, fully removed from the lens of childhood.  

It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

It also made the childish flirtations she’d indulged in over the last two days—self-assured in the fact that Jon was beyond reach—feel incredibly stupid. She was running through hazy memories of everything she’d written him and wishing she could’ve said something different, something better. Knowing that Jon might be an actual possibility, that he’d even be interested, changed everything. The crush she’d been teetering around was suddenly slamming into her full force.

So, in lieu of responding to him like a normal adult, she’d sent three desperate texts to Margaery and one vague ‘HELP,’ to Jeyne Poole instead.

“I’m fine, I promise,” she says, pulling her wine glass to her lips so Arya can’t get a full look at her face. She’s completely missed whatever their tour guide was saying, but nods in agreement when Alys Karstark mentions the floral notes in the chardonnay.

“Bullshit,” Arya scoffs, eyes narrowing. “You’re losing it in there, I can tell. What’s going on?” Sansa has to bite her tongue before speaking. There’s not even a vague enough hypothetical to explain what’s got her so taut, toes curling in her flats.

3/4ths of the room knows who she’s been texting all day—all signs point to Snow.

“Just leave it,” she hisses, leveraging her height to stare her sister down. It definitely doesn’t work, but Sansa is saved by the winery tour guide asking if anyone wants to see where they process grapes. Refusing to let the opening pass, she takes a wide loop around the Mormont sisters and makes her way towards the front of the group where Jeyne is. She can feel Arya’s eyes boring into her back the whole way.

\----

It’s a full half-hour before her sister corners her again, relentless.

“Did something happen with Jon?”

Sansa wants to laugh. _Not yet, but hopefully._

They’re back in the limo and Arya’s made sure to press her way through the rest of the bridal party to return to Sansa’s side. Chancing a glance at her, Sansa feels the rebuke she’d had ready die on her tongue. Arya’s concern is sincere. _Shit,_ Sansa thinks. “No, nothing’s happened with Jon,” she says instead, impressed with how sure she sounds. “Can we talk about this later?”

“That’s what he said,” Arya states, sighing in irritation. But all Sansa can hear is a rushing in her ears as the blood drains from her face.

“You messaged him?” It’s pitched too high, she knows.

“Yeah, you were acting so weird. I thought he’d said something.” Sansa is thankful she’s too dumbstruck to feel her hands or she’d grab Arya and shake her. What would she say to Jon now? It was bad enough she hadn’t responded, but to have her sister go off and tell him how ‘weird’ she was behaving… the humiliation burns hot on her cheeks.

She should have known Arya would say something. She _knew_ how close she and Jon were. There were thousands of possibilities to how it would go now—what had Jon even said back to her? If the text hadn’t been anything, then it was likely he was at as much of a loss to Sansa’s odd behavior as Arya. If there was nothing to it, then she was safe—embarrassed for different reasons entirely. Jon wouldn’t hold it against her, she knows, but the anxiety of how she’ll approach him now still eats away at her.

The door of the limo shutting rocks her back into herself and she wipes her palms across her skirt. Arya has already moved on, handing over her Fireball to Lyra Mormont’s outstretched hands. They’re laughing over something the tour guide had said, but it’s white noise, fading out as Sansa gathers the courage to finally pull her phone from her purse.

She stares at it like it’s apt to bite her.

 _Just do it_ , she thinks, typing in her passcode, _it can’t get any worse._

There are messages from Margaery and Jeyne, a mix of confusion and worry. But Sansa bypasses them both, searching for Jon’s name. She freezes when she sees he’s beaten her to the punch.

 _Sorry if that wasn’t appropriate. I just, I don’t know what I thought._ Sansa can almost picture him, brows pulled down and mouth tight. She wants to cry. It feels like the opportunity is slipping away from her and she’s surprised at how angry it makes her. It’s been so long since she’s _wanted._

 _No_ , she writes back quickly before she can overthink it, _it was appropriate._

Her stomach sits like a rock, but she feels buoyed at the ire in her core. Everything is out now, there’s nothing to regret.


	3. Jon

Jon’s in the middle of watching Harry Hardyng hold his nose while downing a shot when he sees his phone light up against the bar. He’d been alternating between banishing it to his back pocket and gazing at it like it might offer up an answer to his earlier stupidity of propositioning Robb’s younger sister. He’d been in the same loop for twenty-minutes when Theon Greyjoy had finally asked him what the fuck had him attached to his phone like a lovesick school girl. Jon had abandoned the thing for whiskey then.

Not that he could stop thinking about it, or Sansa, despite that fact.

While perhaps poorly timed, Jon didn’t think he was that green with women that he’d misinterpret flirting, especially with the way Sansa had been looking at him the past two days. It had surprised him at first, the way her eyes always seemed to seek him out, regardless of where he was. But he’d assumed it was a natural extension of the anxiety that’d led her to ask him to be her date to the wedding in the first place. She may not have said it directly, but he’d heard enough from Robb and Arya to make a guess. So he’d done his best to be an anchor, to stay as close as he could without intruding. 

It didn’t seem to matter. The shared looks continued to grow in frequency while the distance between them shrunk. It was like a branding now, his skin prickling every time he felt her eyes on him. He was trapped in a middle-ground, unsure if what he’d normally categorize as interest from the fairer sex was actually applicable to a woman whose dolls he used to fake-babysit. The last thing he wanted to do was make Sansa uncomfortable or betray the trust she’d placed in him.

However, whiskey was a great precursor to mistakes and Jon had been drinking since 10 am. Which, he reasoned, was why he’d taken a mental walk off a cliff and offered his body up to the eldest Stark sister. 

It wasn’t too long after that that Arya had messaged him to ask if he knew what was wrong with Sansa and he’d felt the alcohol-tinged bravado die out. A strangled sort of panic had followed, then immediate relief that he was in a bar over 40 minutes away so Arya couldn’t see his face. It had taken him 5 minutes to write her back a simple,  _ No. What’s going on?  _ Then an additional 10 minutes to message Sansa. 

He hated lying to Arya, but it didn’t really feel like the time to admit that (1) he was incredibly attracted to her sister, and (2) he was a total fucking moron—clearly. 

“8 more shots of tequila, please” he asks, once the bartender is back in speaking distance. 

He can hear Robb laughing at Harry Hardyng, now dubbed Scuba Steve, behind him. But the rest of the conversation is lost to him. All he can focus on is the blinking notification light on his phone and the sinking feeling in his stomach. Regardless of whether it was Sansa or Arya, Jon wasn’t sure he really wanted to look at it. It’d be bad enough seeing them both in person at the restaurant in the next hour. 

The bartender returns with a fresh row of shots and Jon smiles at her automatically. They’ve got about 15 minutes before they need to be back in the car and moving on. 15 more minutes to contemplate what further apologies he still owed Sansa if he had indeed misread her and she shot him down. He wasn’t about to let an awkward situation he himself created ruin Robb’s wedding.  _ Best get on with it, Snow _ , he thinks, quickly tugging the phone towards him and swiping in. The message is from Sansa:

_ No, it was appropriate. _

_ Oh. _ It takes his brain a minute to catch up before he shivers and the air leaves his lungs in one shaky rush. He can feel want settling low in his spine; every thought in his head half-formed and forgotten.  Raynald Westerling is calling for another toast and Jon feels his body move of its own accord, tipping his shot glass toward Robb before downing it in one go. The burn of the alcohol barely registers against the flush of heat pushing through his system. And he’s suddenly very  thankful that the rest of the groomsmen are too busy raising their blood-alcohol level to notice him. 

_ Fuck _ , he thinks, half-strained, half-hysterical,  _ fuck. _

He immediately regrets his earlier insistence on staying somewhat sober to keep the grooms party on track. It was the perfect time to be drunk. Drunk and much braver than he currently felt. 

“Well gentlemen,” Theon starts, pushing his shot glass back onto the bar, “shall we move on to our next location?” There’s a collective agreement and a shuffle of bodies that Jon can’t do anything but move along with. He tries to think of a way to forestall the inevitable and buy himself more time, but most of the group is already on their way to the exit.

“You okay?” Robb asks, knocking against Jon’s shoulder with his own. His smile is so wide that Jon almost feels guilty for his present line of thinking. He smiles back at him, only slightly labored, and nods. It must be enough with Robb’s present level of inebriation because he only grins wider, pats Jon’s shoulder and heads towards the car.

_ 30 minutes _ , Jon tells himself, setting his own shot glass down on the bar before following Robb out. He has 30 minutes to prepare himself for a night of agonizing restraint and socialization.

Then after 11 pm, all bets were off and Sansa Stark was his.


	4. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to keep this to a regular Sunday posting schedule, however, I'll be out of town most of next week and not sure I'll be able to get another update out until after. Hopefully this longer chapter helps in the meantime!

The restaurant is bigger than Jon anticipated, all dark wood and windows, nestled in the crux of two expansive vineyards. Even with his brain preoccupied by thoughts of Sansa, it makes him pause in admiration. They’re still a few hours out from sunset, but there are already fairy lights twinkling about the rafters and a glowing fire pit next to the outdoor bar.

 _The Westerlings really do go all out_ , he thinks, feeling a fleeting pang of concern over his own casual attire.

No matter how old he got or how much time he’d spent roaming the halls of the Stark estate, he remained acutely aware of his upbringing. Though he’d never disparage it now, being raised by a single-mother hadn’t really afforded him the same opportunities many of his childhood peers had benefited from. And while he could appreciate the principles his mother had instilled in him, becoming friends with Robb Stark in 2nd grade—and the entire Stark social circle by association—meant he’d had to do a lot of learning on his feet.

He’d taken careful steps to blend in after the first time he’d visited Robb at home, not fully understanding why, but knowing enough to realize the Starks were _different,_ which meant maybe _he_ had to be different. As a child, this had led him to quietly observe and mimic what the other Stark children were doing—especially Sansa.

Even before Catelyn Stark had pushed the importance of _appearances_ , Sansa had drifted through social events with a poise the rest of them had no hopes of achieving. Jon could still remember her at age 9, perched on a stool in the Stark kitchen, explaining the appropriate behavior for a fundraising gala. Jon had openly scoffed at her with Robb back then, but he’d memorized everything she’d said anyways. He’d known from then on that if there was ever a person to direct him on the appropriate social graces, it was Sansa Stark.

 _Too bad she can’t help me now._  

Thinking of her has him mindlessly reaching for his phone until he remembers he’s yet to message her back—caught in the anxiety that comes with having too long to think on anything that has a potential for loss. He’s never been much of a talker, but in the face of actually wooing Sansa he could honestly say he felt more bereft of words than ever.

The only things that come to him now are ones he wouldn't want evidence of in writing.

“Gods, this place is massive.” Gendry Waters mutters next to him, instantly reminding Jon that he isn't the only one with a reason to feel out of his element. Arya’s ‘not-boyfriend- _really_ ’ had come from a similar background to Jon’s own, and even after a year of ‘not-dating’ could still be thrown by the lavish displays of wealth within the society circles.  

“A few more drinks and it’ll only seem as big as the bar,” Jon says, nodding towards the general direction of their fellow groomsmen. There’s a private room in the back where they’re supposed to be heading. He knows because he’d come here the day before with Sansa to ensure the restaurant’s event planner had everything they needed to set the room up. Jon hadn’t done much in the way of directing personally, but he’d done a great job of ferrying boxes while Sansa went through her lists.

Said lists contained the entire wedding schedule, vendors, emergency contacts, background on each member of the bridal party and more. Jon had first been introduced to them on the plane ride to California; once they were fully in the air, Sansa had pulled out a folder containing several pieces of color-coded paper and begun jotting down notes. It had taken Jon a few minutes to parse out the contents, unwilling to lean in too far over her shoulder to read them properly. But once he had, he'd felt a swell of bemused admiration—and woefully under-prepared as Robb’s best man.

Thankfully his job seemed to boil down to herding cats and keeping track of the general time table. Easy enough, Jon had always been the responsible one, always there to point out the collective group stupidity and pick up the pieces after when no one listened. It wasn’t a role he’d cherished in his youth, but back then he’d just been happy to have a role in the group at all.

 _The honorable Jon Snow_ , Robb and Theon had always called him.

He certainly doesn’t feel honorable now, eyes catching on a flash of pale skin as he and Gendry round a corner to meet up with the rest of the groomsmen.

The bridal party has already arrived, and with them, Sansa Stark in all her glory.

He nearly missteps at the sight of her, unwilling to look away long enough to monitor where his feet are going. She’s standing between Jeyne and Arya, a glass of cabernet clutched loosely in one hand. And as she has done every day since Jon had first joined her at the airport, she lifts her eyes and across the room she finds him.

Everything in his head goes quiet. The nerves from earlier suddenly absent.

He knows he’s standing in place, staring, but Sansa isn’t looking away either. It feels suddenly important, this moment—and Jon is innately aware he’s got a limited amount of time before what they’re doing becomes too apparent. He’s going to have to move on, look away, go back to being just Jon Snow, Robb Stark’s best man. So he does his best to communicate all the things he hadn’t been able to put into text—that he hoped they were on the same page, that he saw her, admired her, _wanted_ her.

When he sees warm pink climb up to her cheeks he can’t help the twitch of his mouth in response.

It’s a collective lift in sound that finally has Sansa breaking her gaze. Robb and Jeyne have made their way to each other, much to the delight of their bridal party, tipsy in both alcohol and happiness. Harry Hardyng is chanting "Kiss! Kiss!" above the din of everyone's amusement, and it makes Robb grin wide while Jeyne flushes sweetly. It's cheesy and terrible and Jon doesn't think he's ever seen Robb look quite so happy in his life.

It makes something in his stomach turn over and he has to will himself not to glance back at Sansa. Instead, he turns to Gendry who'd come up short beside him when Jon had abruptly stopped. He means to ask him if he wants a drink, the wait staff filtering in now with trays of champagne. However, Gendry's eyes are firmly fixed across the room. _Right,_ Jon thinks, _Arya._

It takes less than a minute of watching him before an idea begins to form in Jon’s head.

Gendry Waters might not be much help in the way of distraction—but he’d likely make an excellent excuse for Jon to move across the room to where he wanted to be.

It wasn’t that Jon technically needed a reason to talk to anyone present, but he and Sansa had never had the type of relationship where spending all day together wouldn’t be suspect. It’d been easier for them earlier when they’d had best man and maid of honor duties requiring them to work as a unit. No one had questioned the amount of focus they’d placed on each other then. But now? Monopolizing each other’s time of their own free will? No, that would lead to a plethora of awkward conversations.

Jon needed a different plan, one that involved the newest family addition.

He’s midway to actually asking Gendry if he wants to move to where Arya and Sansa are standing when he’s sidelined by the arrival of the two youngest Starks.

Being 18, Rickon had been relegated to the hotel while the rest of the groomsmen hit the bars, and Bran, torn between annoyance and guilt, had volunteered to stay behind with him.  "You aren't drunk at all," Rickon states, pushing his older brother’s chair through the roving wait staff towards them, "I thought you'd all be blitzed by now."

"Getting there," Gendry says, seemingly coming back into himself enough to pull a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waitress—Jon follows suit.

"Your brother's nearly there," he furthers, noting that Robb has moved on from his fiancee to share his love with Arya and Sansa. Arya's face is a mix of amused disgust as he crowds them bodily while Sansa seems more resigned, taking half of Robb's weight when he wraps his arms around them. Even at the tail end of sobriety, Jon knew it was difficult to deny Robb anything. They’d all cowed to him in ways they wouldn’t have to each other over the years—headstrong Theon Greyjoy included.

He feels an unexpected tug at his glass and lifts a brow to find Rickon's prying fingers. Unsurprising.

"You get one." He says, the sternness of his voice overshadowed by affection. He knows he's going to have to spend part of the evening ensuring he doesn't end up carrying more than one Stark back home.

"He already has a flask," Bran says, shaking his head.

 _Of course he does_ , Jon thinks, holding out a hand. Monitoring the amount of alcohol readily available in the room was going to be enough without Rickon’s boozy carry-on item. Thankfully, he hands it over without much complaint.

"We're in a vineyard," he says as way of explanation.

"And you're going to be on your own when Mom and Dad have to drag you from your bed in the morning." Bran replies. Jon knows it's a falsehood, that if it were actually to come to that Bran would be first in line to cover. The same way Robb had covered for him and he had covered for Robb over the years.

Rickon merely scoffs before turning back to Jon, teenage brain already moving on to something more important. "When do we eat?"

 _Food_ , Jon thinks, pocketing the flask, _food would be good for all of us_. He takes a cursory glance around the room but can't see far beyond the mess of people to discern whether or not the servers are setting up the hor d'oeuvres stations. There’s a schedule for it—there’s a schedule for everything—but Jon hadn’t paid particular attention to that part of Sansa’s lists, too busy paying attention to Sansa herself at that point in time.

There’s only way to find out now.

"I'll ask," he says, happy to have a new excuse to break ranks and make his way to the eldest Stark sister. He doesn’t even wait for a response before he starts moving.

She isn’t in the same place she was when he looks for her, having managed to work her way from beneath Robb’s grasp. Jon feels a momentary twinge of disappointment before he spots her again, huddled in with the event planner, one of her color-coded lists in hand. She’s gesturing at the long tables pressed against the room’s walls, discussing what Jon assumes to be food placement.

Even here, she’s graceful.

It makes Jon smile stupidly until he almost walks directly into Arya.

He’s immediately thrown by her sudden appearance in his field of vision. He hadn’t even noticed her approaching, too zeroed in on Sansa. Arya’s face is still a wash of annoyance from Robb's open display of affection, but her eyes narrow when she realizes how close he was to bowling her over. "Are you drunk?"

"...no?" He supplies, struck dumb at the derailing of his previous thought process.

"You look drunk."

"I'm not drunk," he says, rubbing at the crease between his brows he can now feel deepening, his annoyance peaking.  He should have known the immediate opening was too easy. There were too many Starks in this room and the downside to being too close to all of them was becoming readily apparent.

“Well, we need to talk,” Arya states, grabbing at his arm.

 _Please_ , he thinks, looking briefly over her shoulder towards Sansa as she pulls him away, _just let this night end._


	5. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a day later than intended! I think there should only be a chapter or two left after this. :)

There’s a particular feeling before a summer storm sweeps in, where the air is thick and heavy and your hair stands on end; an intense _knowing_ in your gut when the wind picks up that something is about to break across the horizon.

That, Sansa thinks, is how it feels when Jon Snow enters the room.

The reverse of it, on the other hand, is very much like a vacuum—which is what has Sansa snapping around mid-discussion with the event planner to see Arya physically dragging Jon from the room.

_Well fuck._

She should’ve anticipated this, known that though she’d managed to dodge Arya’s interrogation it didn’t mean the interrogation was actually over. Her sister had simply moved on to an easier target. For all the dark looks and stoic, impenetrable gazes, Jon Snow was too soft hearted when it came to the people he loved—and no one more than Arya. He’d bend to her eventually.

Sansa takes a full minute to reel back in the fraying edges of her nerves, then, apologizing to the event planner, moves after them.

She wishes, belatedly, that she’d addressed things as soon as she’d realized Arya _knew._

They’d been stupidly obvious earlier, too blinded by the revelation of their shared interest. No matter how mentally prepared Sansa had assumed she was, it hadn’t been enough for when she’d actually seen Jon again in person. She’d frozen in place, instantaneously thrown back to her teen years and the simple, agonizing want of having another person— _that_ person—just look at you.

And everything had been so different this time when he did. 

The full weight of honesty in Jon’s gaze had sent gooseflesh puckering up her arms. It had been an open invitation, one she’d done her best not to immediately respond to. 

Instead, as the chatter in the room rose in intensity, she’d willed herself to turn her eyes to Gendry, whose stare was set firmly on her little sister. When she’d followed his eyes back towards Arya though… all the dopamine flooding her system had fizzled out.

Arya had already been staring back at her. 

It was in that moment that Sansa had realized her sister had seen everything—confirmed when Arya had promptly asked her if she and Jon were _you know._

If it hadn’t been for Robb’s sudden appearance, Sansa knew she’d still be trapped in the never-ending cycle of dodging Arya’s awkward questions. As it was, she’d made her escape in silence as soon as the opening had presented itself. 

She knows now, trying to make her way out of the private room, that it’d been a mistake. One of the many she’d be happy to confess to if it meant she could get to Arya and Jon before her sister humiliated them both.

 _Please,_ she thinks, using the full length of her legs to increase her stride without running. _Don’t let Arya say anything stupid._

She wants to run outright, but she’s hyper aware of everyone else in the room now—the watchful eyes of her siblings in particular. However, as she smiles politely at other members of the bridal party, she notes (with mild disdain) that her baby brothers have set themselves up in a corner close to Theon, knocking back flutes of champagne much to the older man’s amusement. They don’t see her at all.

 _Later_ , she tells herself, nearly stopping as the Catelyn Stark in her clawed to get out. She could reprimand Rickon and Bran  _after_ she found Jon and Arya. After she was sure she had full control the narrative. Because even if everything was fine— _it would be_ —the story of her and Jon finding their way to each other wasn’t a conversation she wanted overshadowing Robb’s wedding. She had to get out in front of it before the rumors spread.

Then, they could tell Robb afterwards, preferably when they were all again separated by state lines. 

Exiting the room, Sansa hesitates when she sees the hallway is vacant. _Really?_ They’ve moved faster than she expected. Still, wanting to be sure, she glances toward the service entrance to the kitchen before taking a left back to the main part of the restaurant.

She can’t see them there either. _Shit._

Trying to quell the rising panic, she stands on the tips of her toes to look over the rest of the restaurant patrons to see the outside bar.

_There._

It’s Jon she spots first—of course—the last rays of the setting sun catching on his dark curls. He’s leaning slightly away from Arya, a forgotten flute of champagne clutched in one hand. She can’t see Arya’s face, but she can guess at what she’s saying as Jon tries to angle further away from her.

Sansa barely thinks about it before she moves, slipping through the rows of tables with a determined ease. It’s in direct opposition to the rush of frantic sound filling her head, growing louder the longer it takes her to reach the patio doors. When she finally does, she wrenches them open and closes the distance between her, Arya, and Jon in four large steps.

It’s not until she’s actually between them, facing Arya, that she realizes she hadn’t come up with anything to say. In the growing silence, Arya’s mouth sets into a hard line and Jon lets out a short sigh behind her. Not for the first time in this trip, Sansa feels like an idiot.

“So nothing?” her sister asks after an uncomfortable beat, looking around her to Jon. 

Sansa understands then that she’s the one whose given it all away. Jon Snow was a much better liar than she’d believed, it appeared. And now she’s ruined it. 

Hoping to do damage control, she opens her mouth to clarify, but Arya isn’t having it. 

“I have eyes.” she says. “And whatever you and Jon were doing earlier was anything but subtle.”

Sansa wants to dispute it, but no counter-argument materializes. She can’t say whether it comes from a place of tired frustration or just an overriding feeling of _want_ _—_ and wanting to move on with things so she can _have_ _—_ but she’s done.

"Okay," she says, taking a deep breath and putting her hands up, "okay." She can feel the weight of Jon's unasked question like a mantle upon her, but he doesn't move to interrupt and she’s thankful not to have to explain herself. "You're right."

Both of Arya's brows go up.

"Not that," Sansa furthers, remembering Arya's earlier line of questioning. "Not yet."

Arya is quiet, passing a look from her to Jon, still paused with his drink in hand behind her. Whatever she sees in his face must be enough, because her own face softens into mild annoyance and Sansa has to will herself not to turn around and look at Jon herself. 

"Whatever this is," she says, looking pointedly at both of them, "you need to sort it out—preferably not anywhere I can see."  Then, with one last hard glance at Jon, she's gone, heading back to the restaurant.

From anyone else it would’ve felt like a reprimand, but from Arya Sansa knows it was an approval—a begrudging one, maybe, but one all the same—and she feels lighter in the wake of it.

She isn't sure how long she stands staring after her sister until the soft press of Jon's fingers at her elbow and the sound of her name on his lips brings her back to herself. 

She closes her eyes and savors the sound of it before turning around.

Jon’s face is a mix of concerned fondness, his affection unmistakable when she sees it up close—so vast she could drown in it.

He drops his hand from her arm and she catches it without thinking, lacing her fingers with his own. The feel of him sends roiling waves through her gut and she has to look down. _I just need a minute_ , she thinks, desperate to figure out exactly what she could say now that she had him alone. 

"Sansa." Jon says again, softer.

When she looks up at him it nearly sinks her anew. _Oh._


	6. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That mature rating kicks in now. ;)

“Sansa?”

The question in Jon’s voice is emphasized by the crease in his brow and Sansa marvels at how well it suits his features—the looking broody. It doesn’t stop her from wanting to reach out and smooth the concerned lines with her fingers, but it does help remind her that she’s staring.

Silently staring, brain still empty of all the flowery declarations that most romantic leads would be making by now. And she’s been staring long enough at this point that Jon’s become unsettled by it.

It shouldn’t be funny, but she feels drunk on Arya’s approval and Jon’s undivided attention— _finally_ _—_ and can’t stop the sappy smile pulling at the corners of her lips. Nor does she stop staring when Jon takes notice and his own lips move in mirrored response. 

When she was younger, her friend Jeyne Poole had always pointed out that even when Jon was smiling his lips were frowning, the corners always turned down. It’d been a jab at his seemingly constant state of melancholy back then, but Sansa only finds it endearing now.

_The dour Jon Snow_. How inaccurate it was in reality.

Unable to restrain herself, she reaches up to touch his face—her fingers dancing lightly against the corner of his mouth. 

The soft laughter in Jon’s face changes then, replaced by a heady sort of longing that Sansa swears she can feel down to her toes, burning hot through her core when she sees his pupils dilate. It’s close to the same naked look he’d given her earlier, but far more compelling in it’s sheer veracity. _Gods, when was the last time a man had looked at her this way? A man she_ **_wanted_ ** _?_

“We—” his voice catches, lower than she’s ever heard it. “We should move somewhere else.” 

_Right,_ she thinks, cloud of ardor lifting just enough to remember they were in public. And they should very much not be in public, so they could do all the very not-public things she wished to do. _Or talk_ , she reminds herself, trying to keep her baser wants at bay.

She lets her hand drop from Jon’s face so he can place his forgotten glass of champagne back on the bar and takes a look around the patio. She’s not sure how much time they’ve spent standing there, but knows it can’t have been too long given the other people littering the area haven't seemed to notice.

_And no one from the bridal party’s come looking._

She jumps a little when Jon's thumb brushes against her fingers, completely forgetting she still has his hand in her own. He spares her a look of wry amusement, “Alright?” 

She nods and he tugs once gently, leading her away.

This is the part where Sansa wishes she had come better prepared, had actually thought about all the things she wanted to say— _should_ say—but her brain is caught in a dreamy deadlock. No words seem to matter. Instead, she feels alight, desire a dull thrum beneath her skin as she watches the shift of muscles beneath Jon's shirt while he walks.

It's not the first time she's been privy to the sight of them. No, that joy had come the summer of Jon's second year of University, when he'd returned fully fleshed out and very much _a man_. Sansa had been incredibly embarrassing in her response to him that July, dressing herself up in her tiniest outfits and lurking behind corners to catch a glimpse of him. It was probably the most contact she’d had with Jon Snow in her life until now—and nothing had come of it. 

To teen Sansa, Jon had been no more than a momentary object of lust to teenage hormones—still so intrinsically tied to the idea of 'Robb's best friend' in her head—yet now...

He glances back at her, eyes impossibly dark and Sansa feels her stomach flip.

Now, 26 year old Sansa was going to take the chance teen Sansa never would have—even if it required sneaking off from her older brother's pre-wedding festivities to indulge in bad behavior. 

They could talk _after._

She isn't really paying attention to where they're going, too lost in her thoughts, until Jon stops and she sees they’ve reached the back side of the patio wall. It’s blessedly empty and angled out of view from the restaurant’s broad windows. _At least one of us is thinking._ Sansa knows she couldn’t string two words together, presently.

She’s also well aware that she has no idea what to do with herself now that they’re here. She knows what she wants—in painstaking detail—but she'd never really been given the opportunity to take charge in her past dalliances. 

And in this, with Jon, she wants to be brave. Preferably in a way that won't highlight her romantic shortcomings. 

_I just need to_ … her brain is frantically trying to organize a game plan when Jon tugs again at her hand, ensuring they've both stepped fully out of view from unsuspecting patrons or bridal party members. _I need to_ … there’s a low buzzing of sound in her head as he turns to her. 

Before she even thinks about it, before the idea even fully forms, she moves to get in front of him and presses her hand back against his chest. He looks as surprised as she feels at the gesture and it thrills her. A warm sort of power bubbling up, encouraging her to push harder until his back hits the patio wall.

_Now there’s a look_ , she thinks, awed at how dark and wide Jon’s eyes have gone. Bolstered at her own tenacity.

“ _Sansa_.” 

There it is again. 

For all the years they’ve known each other, coexisted in the same space, Sansa doesn’t think she’s ever heard her own name so frequently from Jon’s lips. But she’d be happy to hear it forever, particularly in that low, affected tone that made her hair stand on end.

The light-headed feeling from earlier has returned and she can feel herself smiling. She bites down on it, catching the bottom of her lip as she watches Jon licks his own in return. 

Hesitantly, he lifts a hand to her waist, sending a shiver up her spine. _Yes,_ she wants to say, to reassure him, but nothing comes out. So she simply takes a step closer instead, watching Jon's eyes drift from her own to her mouth and back again. 

It's enough. 

She leans in and presses her lips against his own. 

There’s a brief moment before Jon responds where Sansa wonders if maybe this wasn’t precisely what he’d had in mind when he'd brought her back here, that she was being too forward. But then Jon’s other hand is moving to the back of her neck, tilting her head to deepen the kiss and Sansa knows she’d read him correctly.

_Gods_ , she’d been wrong before when she'd thought looking into Jon's eyes was like drowning—it's nothing compared to this. The movement of his mouth against her own, the delicious pressure of his lips and the soft feeling of his tongue. She'd gladly never breathe again if it meant she could entrap Jon here with her forever.

He presses up against her fully and she makes a small sound in her throat, crowding back into his space as near as she can be in response. She wants to climb into him, the build-up of the last few days finally finding release. There’s a small part of her brain shouting about decorum and adult behavior, but it dies out as soon as Jon moves his knee between her legs. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

She can feel her mind short out to pure white and mindlessly fits her hands into Jon’s hair, pulling lightly at the curls at the nape of his neck in hopes he’ll understand her want for _more_ —her body already arching to get more friction.

However, rather than pushing closer, Jon abruptly pulls back and she's stuck trailing after him to keep the distance narrow. 

_What?_

His breathing is heavy and when she opens her eyes she sees that his are still closed, his cheeks flushed. 

"Fuck," he says, quiet and frustrated. She doesn't really understand. "The party." 

_Oh…_ the party. 

She stands there dumbly, still perched on Jon’s thigh with her hands in his hair. He’s taking slow, deep breaths now, though he doesn’t move to extract himself further. 

“If we keep going…” he ends on a laugh and it takes Sansa a moment to follow—when she does she has to stop herself from instinctively canting her hips forward. She can certainly feel the problem now.

It should make her feel awkward, and perhaps in a past life it would have, but here with Jon she only feels a responsive sort of pulse in her own system and a small grin spreading across her lips.

“I should really be going about this better,” he says, still laughing, rubbing soothing circles into Sansa’s skin where he holds her. She wants to close her eyes and lean into it, stay out here behind the patio forever and alleviate the frustration burning beneath her skin.

But she knows he’s right, that sooner or later someone was going to come after them. The best man and maid of honor disappearing was bound to be noticed. And being caught going at it behind the restaurant while sober wasn’t quite as acceptable for adults past 20 as it was for horny teenagers. _We should both be going about this better_ , Sansa thinks, but she’s having a hard time truly caring. 

“You like me,” she states, instead, waiting till Jon’s eyes meet her own. “And I like you.” He smiles. “I think we can go about it however we please.”

And with that, she leans in again.


	7. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay on this, last week was crazy! But only one chapter left now. :D

Making out with Sansa Stark behind a restaurant felt like a very specific teenage dream, one Jon shamefully would have indulged in in his youth — had done, at one point. 

Though he'd tried his best to maintain strict boundaries in high school, keeping Sansa firmly categorized as 'Robb's little sister' and 'off-limits,' Jon wasn't blind. And summers at the Stark estate in college had given him plenty of content to desperately try not to fantasize over.  

He’d failed, multiple times.

Yet none of those youthful fantasies could match the present reality — the way Sansa softly keened as she ground down against his thigh.

_ Fuck _ ...

Jon could feel himself spiraling, desire clouding what little logic was left to him and shredding the last of his restraints. It was intoxicating, and if he were honest, the pull was far stronger than he'd expected. Which was probably why they were back behind the restaurant pawing at each other rather than taking the slow approach. The lines were gone for both of them.

Not for the first time, the voice in the back of his head — reminding him of exactly where he was and with who he was with — blares like an ever-increasing siren’s wail. 

Jon didn’t think Robb would actually care about the two of them together when it came down to it, but catching Jon with his hand up Sansa's skirt was probably a line too far. He tries to hold onto the thought, but the guilt is quickly swallowed up when Sansa shifts again against him. 

All he wants to do is get her out of her clothes, to get rid of his own, and feel her skin against skin. 

He’s managed to work his hand up to the hem of her stockings when the sudden blast of Hall & Oates’ “You Make My Dreams Come True” over the patio speakers startles them both. They’re caught mid-motion, halfway to each other and breathing heavily as “the candle feeds the flame, yeah, yeah” bleats out across the area. 

Jon’s not sure which one of them breaks first, but it’s less than a beat before  they’re both laughing — moment ruined.

“We should — ”

“Right.”

Sansa’s lips are swollen, lipstick smeared dramatically in one corner. Jon can only imagine where it's ended up on his own face and subconsciously wipes at his mouth as Sansa extracts herself from his grip. 

They’re both disheveled, he knows, can picture the exact look of debauchery they make as he watches Sansa attempt to smooth out wrinkles in her skirt from where he’d bunched it up in an attempt to get to her underwear. But he makes no move to fix his own appearance, content just to watch Sansa instead.

Once she’s satisfied with her clothing, she moves on to pull her hair from what’s left of the bun he’d destroyed in their haste with each other. It cascades down her back and he itches to run his hands through it properly. 

Sansa makes quick work of it, however, dragging her fingers through the ends and breaking up knots before pulling all of it back into a loose ponytail. 

"Your — " Jon motions towards her mouth as she stops long enough to meet his eyes. 

"Ah," she says, wiping delicately at the area around her lips. “Better?” 

He nods, struck by how simple this all feels now that it’s actually happening. There’s still a well of nerves beneath the surface, but it’s different now — more anticipation of what was to come over fear of what might not. In truth it all feels inevitable now, they both know exactly where they’re going to end up.

“I can go first,” Sansa says, giving Jon a pointed once over. He doesn’t have to guess at why. The minor problem from earlier was far less minor now.

“Give me about a half hour,” he replies, jokingly.

“I’ll give you 15 minutes,” she says in response, folding her arms across her chest, though her grin ruins the effectiveness “After that I’ll drag you away regardless. Full permission, remember?”

At that Jon laughs outright. Yes, he remembers.

“15 minutes it is then.”

Promise in hand, Sansa makes one more pass at smoothing down her attire before regarding Jon with a tight look. He’s about to ask her if she’s okay before she leans in and presses her lips quickly against his own. Then she’s gone again, already moving back towards the main patio.

“Sansa,” he says, reaching out to her. It seems useless at this point to clarify what this is between them, but Jon still feels compelled to try. He wants her to know that he’s not interested in just a one night stand — if she’ll have him — that he wants more. “This is — ”

“I know,” she says, cutting him off. 

Then she smiles softly and makes her way back around the patio wall towards the restaurant.

Jon’s left standing awkwardly, feebly attempting to will down his arousal. Sighing at the futility of it, he pulls Rickon’s flask from his jacket and takes a swig.

_ Just a few more hours. _

 

\----

 

When Jon finally reenters the restaurant — 10 minutes later and counting — he’s happy to note that no one has seemed to notice his absence. Well, perhaps no one but Arya, but she’s preoccupied by Gendry and a nearly empty bottle of Fireball. Everyone else in the room has broken off into smaller groups, hovering around the hor d'oeuvres stations or settling at nearby tables.

Jon scans the room, noting that Robb and Jeyne are deep in conversation with the Mormont sisters and Jeyne’s older brother, Raynald, while Bran and Rickon have moved to sit down at a table in the corner, plates of  canapés stacked high. It’s them that Jon moves towards, figuring he should check on the younger Starks level of sobriety before he stocks up on food of his own.

“Jon!” Rickon barks happily, leaning back in his chair as Jon approaches. 

_ Great,  _ he couldn’t have been gone more than 40 minutes and Rickon already seemed plastered. And Bran wasn’t much better Jon sees when he chances a look at him, the older Stark smiling aimlessly with glossy eyes.

“We’ve been waiting,” Bran says, and Jon falters, feeling all at once that Bran knows  _ exactly  _ what he’s been up to. “They’re going to serve dinner soon.”

_ Right _ , Jon thinks,  _ waiting for dinner. Christ.  _ He really needed to get his shit together if we were going to survive long enough to make it through this night without everyone knowing what he'd been doing out back and what he planned to do later. 

“How much have you both had?” he asks in way of distraction as much as actual interest.  Rickon makes a dismissive sound, popping a goat cheese crostini into his mouth.

 “A’little.” 

Jon doesn’t believe that for a second.

“Stay here,” he says, “and  _ drink water. _ ” If he can stem the free flow of alcohol to them, Jon’s pretty sure he can reel them back in before they’re too far gone. He certainly wasn’t looking to play dutiful older brother this evening and babysit them while they made friends with the Westerling’s guest bathroom. He had far more pressing goals in mind.

The main object of which had just reappeared with the event planner — lists, once again, in hand. Jon tracks her as she moves across the room towards Robb’s group, politely interrupting before motioning towards everyone else.

He stops then, waiting until he sees Robb and Jeyne make their way to the front of the room to move to the food stations. He didn’t remember this part of Sansa’s lists, but it felt important. And he’s clearly not the only one that thinks so as the rest of the room settles into silence once Robb and Jeyne reach the front.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming," Robb says, voice pitched just high enough to reach the back of the room. He has Jeyne's hand clasped in his own. "I'm sure I don't have to explain what it means to us to have you all here — but I’ve been told I have to." There's laughter at that, Robb grinning as Jeyne feigns annoyance, her smile still breaking through. "So," he continues, "I just want to say that I wouldn’t be where I am without many of you, nor do I think I’d be the type of man to deserve the woman I’m marrying. So again, thank you. I love you all.”

It's far more cognizant than Jon had expected given Robb's earlier state — honestly.

And it definitely works the room, people cheering as soon as Robb's finished speaking. There’s a groomsmen whistling, and amidst the crush of sound, Jon can once again hears Harry Hardyng chanting "Kiss! Kiss!"  — this time Robb and Jeyne oblige. 

Jon let's his eyes drift back towards Sansa then. She's clapping along with everyone else, woo-ing appropriately when Robb dips Jeyne back in a flare of dramatic romanticism. 

_ She’s beautiful. _

Even if nothing were to ever come of them, he thinks —if what they were doing was merely a flash in the pan and they both moved on afterwards, he'd have a hard time saying it wasn’t worth it.

As the din dies down and people start moving around the room again, Jon tears his eyes away, not willing to chance Arya coming after him again. He’s not exactly sure where she is at the moment, but he knows better than to risk another surprise confrontation —approval or no.

Instead, he seizes on his opportunity to finally grab food, making sure to pluck another glass of champagne from a side table before moving back over to Bran and Rickon. They’re actually drinking water,  _ thank fuck _ . Not that it lasts once they spot Jon’s drink.

He's mid-assertion to Rickon that he'd said ONE glass of champagne when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He knows before he even looks that it’s Sansa: 

_ I’m amazed he made it through that coherently. _

Jon has to stop himself from looking up and seeking her out, writing back:  _ He’s always been good when he’s the center of attention.   _

_ True, but I thought he might cry. _ Jon laughs, the lack of tears were indeed surprising.

_ Give it another hour. _

_ Only two left now. _

_ Yes,  _ Jon types,  _ only two left now.   _


	8. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end has arrived! A massive thank you to everyone that has commented and left kudos for this fic and me—you all are the real MVPs. I doubt I'd have finished on schedule without the wonderful encouragement. <3 So again, thank you so much!

The two hours turn out to be closer to four and a half by the time the entire bridal party makes it back to the Westerling estate and enough people succumb to sleep (or an overabundance of alcohol) for Jon to feel safe approaching Sansa’s room.

It seems worthless to be nervous about it at this point in time, but Jon can’t help the small fit of anxiety he feels as he stands outside of Sansa’s door. This is the final precipice, the line that once crossed he won’t be able to undo. 

_There’s also the off-chance that Sansa’s changed her mind_ , his brain supplies helpfully.

Jon sighs and closes his eyes.

As obvious as this seemed given their earlier activities, they hadn’t actually had a discussion about it before they’d left the restaurant—both too consumed by herding the wedding party into their respective rides home. So there was certainly a possibility that Sansa was no longer as interested, and he was about to embarrass himself.

_Fuck me,_ he thinks, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to shake his nerves. His internal clock is ticking loudly in time with his heartbeat, reminding him he’s technically under a time constraint—that the longer he loiters, the greater the likelihood of a stray bridal party member stumbling into consciousness and catching him. 

Spurred by the prospect, he squares his shoulders and, taking a deep breath, finally lifts his hand to knock.

Sansa opens the door almost immediately.

“Hi.” Jon says, heart is in his throat.

She’s changed out of her dress from earlier, replacing the perfectly manicured lines of her cocktail gown with an oversized t-shirt she likely inherited from Robb—not what he’d expected, but mesmerizing all the same. Her hair is loose and falling around her shoulders and Jon has to stop himself from instinctively reaching out to touch it. 

“Are you coming in?” she asks and Jon realizes he’s still hovering just outside the door frame—staring.

_Yes_ , he mentally corrects, _very much yes,_ managing no more than a nod before stepping into the room. Sansa gently closes the door behind him.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to show up.” she says, voice betraying her own uncertainty, and Jon has to swallow his incredulity. While it was nice to hear he wasn’t the only one awash in insecurities—the idea that he would choose to be anywhere else but here felt ridiculously absurd.

“Sansa,” he says, making sure she meets his eyes before continuing, “This is the _only_ place I want to be.”

She smiles shyly and Jon can’t help but hook a finger into the bottom hem of her shirt and tug her forward; still slightly floored at the idea this is something he can do.

Sansa meets him halfway, immediately pressing her mouth against his own, and it’s suddenly like they haven’t left the restaurant patio at all. The arousal from earlier rapidly climbing back up through Jon’s system as he settles his hands onto her waist.

_Door_ , his brain reminds, giving him just enough mental wherewithal to reach out and lock it before Sansa pushes her leg between his thighs and the corners of his vision white out. 

_Shit._

Jon shifts to accommodate her, letting his hands slip to the bare skin of her thighs and running his knuckles lightly up towards her ass as she presses closer against him. There’s far less clothing between them this time, the soft planes of Sansa’s body more apparent beneath the threadbare t-shirt. The feel of her sends Jon’s thoughts tumbling into one intelligible stream—made worse when he moves his hands and discovers there’s literally _nothing_ beneath the t-shirt.

Everything in his head shuts down.

He can hear Sansa laughing, the sound coming to him slowly like through water, and realizes they’re no longer kissing, his body frozen in place.

“I thought it’d be easier,” she says in explanation, trying to smother her amusement at Jon’s clear mental break.

He can only blink at her owlishly before the reality of her forethought—her want—actually cements and a wolfish grin pulls across his features.

“Oh, it’s easier alright.” he says, moving both of his hands to cup her ass and heft her up until she wraps her legs around his waist. She’s still laughing when he deposits her unceremoniously onto the bed and crawls over her.

“What?” she asks when he stills, smiling softly up at him. 

Jon can only shake his head, not sure he can properly articulate all the things he wants to say to her—not even certain he can define those things for himself. He’d come here wanting to be the very image of seduction, but he’s so incredibly smitten by her that he’s failing terribly. “You’re perfect.” He says instead.

Sansa snorts, “And you are very wrong, Jon Snow.”

He means to counter, to tell her that while he’s sure he’s wrong on a great many things, this isn’t one of them. However, before he can open his mouth, Sansa lifts a hand to his face and pulls him down to her, fitting her mouth against his own. 

Jon sinks into it, propping himself up on his elbows and settling between her hips—unable to resist the immediate urge to grind down. Sansa lets out a shallow breath in return, cupping the corner of his jaw and tilting her head for better access. And suddenly everything feels whittled down to where they meet, the press of Sansa’s hips in time with his own.

_Gods_ , Jon moves his mouth to her throat, his free hand resuming his earlier exploration of all the newly exposed skin.

He doesn’t get far before he realizes the t-shirt he’d found charming earlier has become an irritating hindrance, forcing Jon to eventually shift up to his knees to help Sansa remove it.

“Fuck,” the sight of her fully exposed below him is… _fuck_. Eyes bright in wonder, Jon brings a hand down to cup her breast, thumb stroking lightly over a pink nipple. He watches as Sansa bites her lip, then, smiling pointedly at her, he replaces his hand with his mouth.

Sansa lets out a much louder sound then, hands finding their way into Jon’s hair as he sweeps his newly freed hand back down her side, shifting up to put more weight onto his elbow so he can drift his fingers over the inside of her thigh before running the pad of his thumb across her clit.

“ _Oh._ ” she says, arching her hips and bringing her legs further up the mattress to press into Jon’s hand. 

She’s already so wet—Jon has to remind himself to go slow. He wants to savor this feeling, the way Sansa coos every time he moves his thumb against her, the way her legs shake when he teases at her entrance.

“You’re evil,” she says, breathless, and Jon grins into her skin, mouth moving from her breasts to bite down playfully at her ribcage. “ _Really_ fucking evil.”

She’s got very little to say after that once he finally slips his fingers into her. 

Her mouth gone slack, lashes fluttering as she tries to keep her eyes open.

Jon’s pretty sure he could do this for hours, his own needs pale in comparison to the sight of her writhing beneath him. She’s still got one hand still clasped in his hair, the other clenching mindlessly at the mattress every time he crooks his fingers and applies pressure— _just so._

In truth, he’s not even sure she’s fully cognizant he’s still there at this point. But she comes back to herself pretty quickly when he slips down the bed and finally puts his mouth where he actually wants it.

“Jon!” it’s half-surprise, half-sob, the sound of it going straight to his cock. 

 Sansa’s boxed him in with her thighs, legs trembling every time he fits his tongue against her, moving it in time with the thrust of his fingers

Jon’s not sure if it’s overwhelming need or a lack of oxygen, but his brain has switched to basic functions only, singularly focused on the feeling of Sansa unraveling around him. The soft sounds she’s making are increasing in pitch, the tremors in her thighs worsening, and he knows she’s getting close.

“ _Jon_ ,” she says again in warning as she pushes up into his mouth. _Yes_ , Jon thinks, following her as her hips cant up. He can feel her nails bite through the fabric at his shoulders, seemingly unsure if she wants to push him off or hold him there. She’s sputtering a litany of broken pleas but Jon can’t make much sense of any of them.

And then suddenly there’s silence and Jon can feel her fracture around him. 

He rides it out with her until she pulls him away.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is her labored breathing, and then, “I hate you.”

_Thank you_ , Jon thinks, making a poor attempt at schooling his features into total neutrality before moving back to settle himself above her. It hasn’t worked and he knows he’s smiling a little bit smugly.

Yet, even fully-debauched, Sansa manages to knock the wind out of his sails and send him off-kilter. “Take your clothes off.”

The rest of the blood in Jon’s body drains southward. 

He doesn’t need much more encouragement than that, moving to kneel back on the bed so he can remove his shirt. It’s the same button down he’d worn to the party earlier. And about three buttons in he’s cursing his stupidity for wearing something with so many obstacles to its removal. He nearly snaps the rest of the offending material off in his haste to be rid of it by the time he gets to the end.

As soon as it’s gone Sansa’s hands are on him, fingers splaying against his chest and curving over the crest of his shoulders. He curls back over her in response, kissing her as she pulls against his belt in an effort to get him to remove his pants.

Normally, this situation would be endearingly comical, but Jon’s so hard right now he can only follow suit and struggle out of the offending fabric—taking off his boxers as well in the process. 

Fully nude, he moves back over Sansa, swallowing the guttural sound in his throat as she takes less than a minute before wrapping her hand around his cock. 

“Sansa…” 

Disheveled, but clearly working with intent, she leans up to capture his mouth again and he can’t help but thrust shallowly into her hand as she slides it over him. 

“Do you have something?” she asks, biting at his jaw. _Condom_. He needed a condom.

“In my pants.” He says, honestly amazed he can still pronounce syllables. _In the pants I just took off.._

—And kicked haphazardly away from the bed. 

Jon mentally berates himself for all of his life choices before desperately trying to pull his discarded clothing closer to him with one foot. It doesn’t work and in the end he has to move away to wrest the small square of foil from his pants’ back pocket.

Sansa is fighting down a smile when he returns to her, taking the proffered condom without comment. Jon’s mental acuity may be horribly dulled by his own arousal, but he’s got a remark ready until Sansa tears open a corner of the package with her mouth.

It’s a sight Jon’s sure he’ll be revisiting later.

Condom in hand, she shifts up to roll it over him, lip between her teeth—another image to visit again later.

Jon lets out a shuddering breath. Taking a moment to attempt to focus through the cloud of lust.

Once he feels like he has more control, he lifts Sansa up to settle her more towards the middle of the mattress and returns his mouth to her own. He waits until she lifts a leg and presses her heel into his back, guiding him forward. 

“Fuck,” he whispers as he enters her, voice strained.

Sansa’s only response is “ _Please._ ” and Jon starts moving.

 

\----

 

The next morning Jon staggers awake with a keen awareness that other people are already up and moving about. He can hear voices in the hallway outside of Sansa’s door and desperately attempts to quell the alarm bells in his head as he tries to remember what the days schedule entails. 

Not that it matters when he doesn’t even know what time it is.

Cautiously, he turns towards Sansa who had somehow burrowed beneath the duvet sometime during the night. Jon can only see the top of her head and the very bottom of her feet—she’s still dead to the world.

Hoping to figure out what time it is and exactly how much trouble he’s about to be in, Jon gently slides off his side of the bed and makes his way towards the pile of his abandoned clothes. He’s looking for his phone, but he honestly can’t even remember if he’d brought it with him last night—he hadn’t.

_Fuck._

Adrenaline surging, he pulls his boxers on and stands fully. 

A quick sweep of the room reveals an analog clock on the nightstand by Sansa and Jon feels immediately relief when he sees it’s only 8:15am.  

He likely still has time to creep back to his own room before most people get up.

Quickly working to redress, he hesitates between the door and the bed, wondering if he should wake Sansa before he makes a break for it. The thought of leaving without saying anything feels way too close to a walk of shame and while Jon would prefer not to broadcast his love life to the rest of the bridal party at the present moment, he’s far from ashamed of last night’s activities.

It also feels incredibly wrong to do to Sansa.

Decided, he moves silently back towards the bed, brushing his hand against the crown of Sansa’s head before calling out to her softly. “Sansa.”

She blinks up at him groggily, the bottom of her face still half-buried beneath the comforter. 

“I have to go,” he whispers, watching as understanding coalesces on her features and she shifts to pull herself into a sitting position. “It’s 8:15,” he adds, hoping to spare her the oncoming swell of panic he’d experienced earlier.

“Oh,” she says, lifting a hand to pat at her hair before looking up at Jon fully. “Breakfast is in an hour.”

“Ah,” he says, amused that this would be the first thing she thinks of upon waking.

“It’s pancakes and mimosas,” she explains further, still blinking groggily up at him. And Jon knows with full clarity that he’s in more trouble than he ever has been. That he’s likely to be in trouble for an incredibly long time after this wedding is over—that it will be the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

He smiles at her fondly, “I’ll see you at breakfast then.”

Sansa lifts a hand, beckoning Jon down to kiss her. 

“I’ll see you at breakfast, Jon Snow.”


End file.
